Page 69 of Third Strike Smitten

Despite everything, a small laugh escapes him. “See? You’re hurt and you’re still trying to make me feel better.”

“I’m just trying to make you see reality,” I correct him. “One mistake doesn’t mean disaster. One imperfect swing doesn’t mean catastrophe. One bad outcome doesn’t mean the world ends.” I turn back around in my seat when Killian pulls into the parking garage of his apartment building. “That’s what tonight was supposed to be about. Reminding you how much you enjoy the game…playing without pressure. Just…having fun no matter how good or bad we all were out there.”

He pulls into his spot and puts the car into park before glancing at me, surprise flickering across his features. “How did you⁠—”

“I pay attention, Killian,” I say softly, bringing my hand back to his thigh. “I notice things about you.”

He shifts in his seat to look at me and for a moment, the parking garage falls away. “You notice things about me,” he repeats, his voice barely audible.

I nod. “I notice that you hold your breath sometimes before you pitch and that you clench your jaw when you’re trying not to show how anxious you are. I notice that you hold yourself to impossible standards. That you track every mistake like it’s the end of the world. That you’ve convinced yourself perfection is the only option.”

Killian’s gaze drops to where my hand rests on his thigh. “That’s...a lot of noticing.”

“I’m a people person,” I say with a small shrug. “It’s kind of my thing.”

“And what else have you noticed?” he asks, his voice low and rough in the quiet of the car.

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close we are in the confined space. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat fills my nostrils, and I’m hyper-aware of the warmth of his body beneath my palm.

“I notice you’re not at all the man you allow the public to believe. For all the women you supposedly have at your beck and call, you haven’t flirted with a woman even once in the times I’ve been around you. I notice that you enjoy being with your brothers and your teammates. They’re like an entire family of people who love you for who you are, and you appreciate that more than they could ever realize. And I notice you’re harder on yourself than anyone else could ever be,” I say carefully.

He doesn’t deny any of what I just said. Instead, he reaches over and gently brushes a strand of hair from my swollen cheek. His touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends shivers down my spine.

“Your face is getting worse,” he says, his voice guilt-ridden as his fingers trace the swelling. “We should get you upstairs and put some proper ice on it.”

“Probably,” I agree, but I don’t move. Neither does he.

The silence between us stretches, filled with something electric and unspoken. His hand moves from my cheek to cup the back of my neck, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I’m not sure if it’s from the injury or from the way he’s looking at me. Like he wants to kiss me but he’s not sure if he should.

“Killian,” I whimper, my voice barely audible in the confined space of the car.

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his thumb continues its gentle circles against my skin, and his gaze drops to my lips. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

“I know you’re trying to be fine, but I see how much pain you’re really in.” He shakes his head. “I…I just need to take care of you tonight. I need to know you’re okay.”

Something about the way he says it—vulnerable, bordering on desperate—makes me forget to protest. “Okay, Killian,” I say, feeling a bit of a relief that I won’t be sitting at home in pain tonight by myself. “I won’t argue with you.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath, and I see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, his voice filled with relief.

Killian opens his door and comes around to my side, opening it before I can even reach for the handle. He helps me out, his arm sliding around my waist to steady me as my head swims for a moment.

“You good?” he asks, his face close to mine.

“Yeah, just a little dizzy.” I lean into him, savoring the warmth of his bare skin against my arm. “Probably just dehydrated.”

“I’ve got plenty of electrolytes upstairs.” He keeps his arm firmly around me as we make our way to the elevator. The parking garage is quiet except for the distant hum of machinery and our footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. When we reach the elevator, he presses the button and then turns to face me, his expression serious. “Promise me if you start to feel worse, you’ll tell me.”

“Cross my heart,” I say, making the motion with my finger. The elevator dings, and we step inside. The mirrored walls reflect our image back at us, me with my swollen face and Killian’s shirt pressed against my nose, him shirtless with his arm protectively around me.

“Yikes, we look terrible,” I tell him, eyeing our reflection.

He chuckles. “Speak for yourself, Coach. I look sexy as fuck right now. You're the one who looks like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”

“Is that what we’re naming the whiffle ball?” I lean my head against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline from the accident is wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep tiredness that makes my legs feel like jelly.

The elevator dings and we step into Killian’s hallway. The plush carpet muffles our footsteps as we make our way to his door. I’m suddenly very aware of how intimate this feels, just the two of us in the quiet hallway, me in his arms, heading to his apartment at night. His place is exactly as I remember it, sleek, modern, and somehow still feeling like it belongs in a magazine rather than being someone’s home. The city lights begin to twinkle through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow across the dark space. Despite the emptiness of the place, the view really is spectacular.

“Come on,” Killian says, guiding me. “Let’s see what the damage is now that we’re home.” He leads me to the kitchen where he easily lifts me onto the counter, so I’m sitting at his height. “Let me look,” he says softly, his fingers wrapping around my wrist as he slowly draws the soaked shirt away from my face. I wince as the cold air hits my raw skin, but I keep my eyes on him, watching as his expression shifts from concern to something deeper, more pained.